Minders of Memory

“Pick whichever one you’d like.” Henry’s father spoke those words sixty-five years ago, nothing now but a mere memory. Aging eyes blinked away the glare from the display case – bear claws, crullers, old-fashioneds, long johns...

“Maple bar!” Henry had shouted as a boy, a giddy grin pressed against the display case. His father had smiled down at him, but beyond that the details of his face were softened, out of focus... fading. Everything was fading nowadays. Time came for us all, Henry mused.

The back door of the donut shop swung open with a shrill creak. A woman in her forties, an apron splattered in flour and frosting tied around her waist, stood behind the counter. A nametag pinned to her chest read: Allison. She looked at Henry with something beyond simple courtesy. After seventy years of life, Henry knew what it was all too well – hope.

“Hi,” she greeted with an overly warm look. “What can I get you?”

“Well, I—” Henry stopped to clear his throat. That always happened now. Every damned day. “I would like a maple bar, please.”

“Sure thing.” Allison grabbed a pair of tongs. “Anything else?”

Since it was barely past 7 am, black coffee would sure hit the spot. But... “Hot chocolate, please.”

That warm look wavered with the peculiar request. “You got it.” Allison slipped the maple bar from its spot behind the glass and into a paper bag. Henry had hoped for a plate. There used to be plates. A moment later she handed him the steaming, frothing cup of hot cocoa in a Styrofoam cup.

“Appreciate it,” Henry said, and handed the woman three dollars and change from his soaked pocket. Outside gray clouds hung low over the street, pounding the cement and parked cars with heavy rain. That was all doing nothing but make every bone in Henry’s bones ache. But he wasn’t about to break tradition today.

The paper bag crinkled around the old man’s stiff fingers, and he hobbled over to a table, forcing his knees to work despite wanting nothing to do with him. The middle one was where they had sat.

Henry bit into the maple bar, and for a moment there was hardly any taste at all, but then it hit him as it always had –sweet soft dough packed with cinnamon and brown sugar. Lips stretched into a smile across his wrinkled face.

“Not bad, huh?” Allison said from the countertop, taking a sip of her own hot cocoa.

“Tastes as good as it did in the sixties,” replied Henry.

Allison held her fist in the air and timidly pumped it once. “I’ve been using my great uncle’s recipe. He died a few years back. So I decided to buy the place and keep his work going.”

Henry hadn’t ever put much thought into who owned the donut shop. He only made this trip once a year every year. Most of the time it was some college kid behind the counter. Occasionally an old man, but Henry couldn’t recall anything about him other than long gray hair.

“Sorry to hear about your uncle,” said Henry. “How’s business been?”

Allison glanced around, prompting Henry to do the same. Up until now, masked by his mind’s eye, the shop had been what it had been when he was five - bright white walls with crimson trim, wooden seats lining the spotless windows, a radio on the shelf playing tunes. Now, pulled into reality, the walls were grayish, the tables plastic and warped, and the windows cracked, and despite the deluge outside, smudged. The one constant was the display case full of fresh donuts, but Henry didn’t entirely trust that that was true, either.

Allison wrapped her arms around her chest, fingers pressing into sleeves. “Honestly, not sure how much longer we can last.”

Henry raised his cup of hot cocoa to her and then winced. The prospect of the donut shop closing hit him with grief he hadn’t felt in so long. “No,” he whispered.

“Sorry?” came Allison’s voice.

Henry shook his head. “Nothing. Just,” Henry reached into his coat pocket; skin feeling for the dry leather book within. A moment later he held the little black book of cracked leather for the owner to see. Dry yellow pages bloomed inside like an awakening flower.

“This was my dad’s,” Henry said with a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat, flipping through the pages without looking. It wasn’t time yet. “He jotted down his first novel in this. Right here in this shop.”

The woman leaned over the counter, resting a palm under her chin. “Did he ever publish it?”

“Oh, yes,” Henry said beaming. “And about a thirty stories after.”

“What were they about?”

Henry snapped the book shut and blinked. Everything was blurry now, but age had nothing to do with it. The shop owner stood upright now, looking down, her face rosy.

“I come here to remind myself of how it all started,” Henry said softly. “And of him.”

There his heart tried to punch out of his chest and traverse to next year, all to make sure the shop was still around. Henry found himself reaching into his pocket again.

“Do you have a pen?” he asked.

Allison came over, handing a ballpoint to Henry’s shaking, outstretched hand. Henry began scribbling on what he had pulled from his coat. “Dad’s books managed to make some money. Wish I had half his talent to keep the stories going, but... here we are.” Henry finished signing his name, tore the check, and handed it to Allison.

“It’s probably not enough to get you to next year,” said Henry. “But I sure hope it helps.”

Allison held the twenty thousand dollar check in her hands, cheeks having gone from rosy to tomato red. “I... I can’t take this.”

Henry shrugged. “It’s doing us both a favor. And a couple folks past that.”

Before Allison could say anything else, a group of twenty-somethings arrived, eyes ogling the bright display case of pastries. That was for the best. Good to have some business, and Henry wasn’t the best with awkward situations anyway.

He turned back to his maple bar and the little black book sitting beside it. With one hand he brought the donut to his mouth, nibbling as he began to read.

Scribbled in his father’s scratchy handwriting, the story began: Chapter 1: There once was a boy...